


Before I Sleep

by anakuya



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Past Arthur Morgan/John Marston - Freeform, Slow Burn, horse thieving: the Wild West catalyst of spite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anakuya/pseuds/anakuya
Summary: “Seems to me that you’ve lost you hat.” Arthur strolled toward the bastard, gun still cocked. The man paid Arthur no mind, however, choosing to stumble toward the paint and pat his neck.“Son, you’ve got an awful lot of nerve to -” Arthur faltered.The thief breathed a heavy exhale and turned to Arthur. That straw hat had hid a tumble of ash hair, a shade too dark to be called blonde in addition to delicate cheekbones, a soft jaw. Arthur paused in his pursuit, unsure of his original plan to execute the bastard that took his horse. Only, he wasn’t a bastard at all.Arthur's horse goes missing. Unlucky for both him and his thief, the pair have promises to keep.





	1. Handsome as the Devil

Saint Denis, 1899

Rain fell in sheets on the horizon, causing Arthur’s breath to rise in flumes of steam. The past three days had been frigid, foreshadowing the heavy rainfall that would soon plague the South East. By the time he returned to town, Arthur’s bones ached, discomfort pulling the back of his neck and spine. 

 Wall to wall, patrons occupied the warm saloon. Women lounged sensuously against wood pillars, fluttering their lashes at fine-dressed men. Chips slid across velvet lined tables, drinks sloshed into the bellies of loud-mouthed business partners. It was a marvel, this comfort, this class. To barter in secret, to threaten with finances instead of fists -- it made Arthur uneasy.

 He sidled up to the bar, careful to slip unseen between the crowd. 

 “Evening, sir. Glad to see you’ve escaped that bluster out there. Can I warm you up with a drink?” The bartender held Arthur’s gaze warmly, his experienced fingers polishing a crystal glass with finesse. 

 “Ah, I think I’ll just take a room and bath.” 

 “Sure I can’t interest you in a gin?”

 “And a gin.” With a sigh, Arthur leaned his weight into the bar. His hat hung low over his eyes, beaten and weathered. His dress wasn’t much improvement, his overcoat smattered with mud and his spurs rusted with use. 

 “Don’t see you folk ‘round here too often.” The bartender began. “You adventurous type, I mean. If I was loose on the Western plains, there would be no stopping me. I don’t need to be one of those gunslingers. But some horses? A farm? That’s the life. That’s America.” The bartender rambled as he procured two glasses and a bottle of gin. A woman sang dreamily on the mezzanine, her voice a treasured sound to the lone countryman. 

“A farm, huh? There’s plenty of land to be farmed out that way, you know.” Arthur retorted, slinging back his drink. The gin hit the back of his throat, cool and sharp. 

“Ah, well, y’see I lost my leg as a boy. Wolves and all. My adventures come in the form of stories from folk like yourself. I make a stiff drink though -- something to be said as my father would say.” The bartender filled his own glass and tipped it back.

“Well,” Arthur started, “don’t mind it, mister. It’s much warmer down here than out towards the rockies anyway.” Tired of his small talk, Arthur set down the glass and took the room key from the bartender’s palm before trudging upstairs. 

When he arrived to the private bath, the tub was already filled with bubbles and the air with steam and heat. He scrubbed at his arms, his his legs, the sun-scarred back of his neck. With a heavy exhale, Arthur slid deeper into the tub, the oils and dim lights leaving him warm and dizzy. Daring to close his eyes, he thought of Mary and Hosea and John. His bones ached with want. So badly he wanted to rest, wanted to ride to Horseshow Overlook and sit by the fire. He missed the gang on quiet nights like this, nights when he rode into town and slept under a roof rather than under the stars. He slipped into a dream, John’s voice echoing in his head. 

_ “You know, I’ve never seen a bison before. Not a white one.” John whispered from his spot in the snowy brush. According to Arthur’s pocket watch it was just past noon, though the raining snow hid any signs of the sun.  _

_ “Yeah. I suppose I don’t see ‘em too often either.” Arthur mumbled back, readying his rifle. From where they hid in the brush, Arthur could just make out the grand beast, his white coat stark against the gray earth. That hide could save them from this winter. John’s feet had nearly outgrown his old boots and Arthur’s nicest coat sported a long tear in the back.  _

_ Arthur lifted his rifle to his shoulder and eyed down the barrel, lining his aim with the bison’s meaty neck. Just as he placed his finger on the trigger -- _

_ “Wait, Arthur.” John urged. Arthur whipped his head to the boy in question. But instead, John’s gaze remained glued to the beast ahead of him.  _

_ “What is it, Marston?” Arthur inquired hotly. John bit his lip, flicked his worried gaze between the older boy and the prey. Arthur should have expected this, taking John along. He was still too unsure of himself, too concerned with possibility rather than truth. Truth was, Arthur needed to return to camp with some game.  _

_ “Can we -- do we have to, Arthur?” John looked at Arthur with those soft eyes, lip still gripped between his teeth. Breaking from Arthur’s scrutiny, he looked back to the ghostly beast, only for Arthur to follow.  _

_ The bison looked up from where he grazed peacefully, seeming to look right at the two boys. His white hide seemed to glow in the stark gray. From his nostrils great puffs of breath billowed into the wintry mountain air. Arthur was a cynic himself in trying times such as these, but he couldn’t deny the certainty he felt that the beast was regarding them, just as they has done so to he. The pair gazed back, suddenly uncertain. Then, the bison turned his back to the young men and lumbered away, decidedly unbothered by the threat.  _

_ Arthur lowered his rifle. He ignored John’s heavy exhale beside him.  _

“Mr. Morgan! Mr. Morgan!” 

Arthur snapped awake to fists pounding on the bath door. The bath water had grown just short of sudsy and lukewarm. 

“Mr. Morgan! Come out of there! We’ve got a situation!” 

Arthur stumbled out of the tub, dripping and cold.

“I’m coming!” Arthur grumbled back, swinging a towel around his waist and pulling open the door. Two men stood at the entrance, red-faced and wide-eyed. He recognized the smaller one to be the stable hand from down the road. 

“What?” Arthur snapped.

“Sir, there was a situation downtown. They say an outlaw shot down three young men by the saloon before skipping town. There’s a hunt for him now.” A man with wiry glasses spat out. Arthur shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“And what exactly would you like me to do about that, now? My… services ain’t for sale.” He narrowed his eyes at the stable hand. A moment of silence passed between the townsmen, before the shorter man opened his mouth.

“Sir, he stole your horse.” The stablehand wrought his hands, not quite making eye contact with the thug. Arthur’s eyes narrowed and his head cocked, slightly.

“‘Scuse me?” Morgan asked. 

“Well, sir, I had just started locking up the stables for the night. Didn’t even see him sneak by me, just burst out of that barn on that paint of yours like a --”

“Son, what kind of stable are you running?” Arthur spat, grabbing the young man by the collar. He winced, craning his head as far back as possible. “God damn it.” Arthur released the boy and slammed the door in the men’s faces before sweeping up his clothes from the floor, cursing the endless buttons of his undershirt.

Arthur stumbled down the saloon stairs, pulling on his coat. The common room was a wild frenzy of fiery men and distraught women. Promises of revenge and the prospect of bounty money seeped into the townspeople, creating a flurry of talk. Arthur paid them no mind, only lending an ear for a moment.

“I heard it was a hit. Been known that those Griffin brothers got too much money and too much ego…”

“What d’ya think the price on his head is? I know a thug near Blackwater. Real mean fellow. I could use a new carriage…”

“Heard he’s handsome as the devil himself…”

“...Ran straight to the west. Lawless lands out there…”

Bingo. Arthur lifted his bandana over his nose and stepped out into the cold. 

Rain fell steadily, the wind blowing it this way and that. The streets were silent save for drunken laughter, the early morning and rain warding off any tourists. 

“Excuse me, sir!” A thin man rode up to Morgan, soaked and shivering. “But have you just vacated a room in there? They were full earlier and I simply can’t find reprieve from this forsaken storm.” 

“Well it surely is your lucky day, mister.” Arthur responded before grabbing the man by his vest and tossing him off the mare. Arthur swung into the saddle and dug his spurs into the nag’s sides, leaving it’s rider sputtering in the street. 

Arthur Morgan loped down the streets until brick turned to dirt turned to mud. The buildings became smaller and more spread out, the lights dimmed behind him. It was dark and the weather was mean. He didn’t suppose he could get very far but that meant neither could his target. He galloped West. 

As he continued to ride the poor nag into the ground, the rain lessened and dawn began to break behind him, peeking through the gray. The new light illuminated the road, exposing fresh hoofprints. Arthur Morgan wasn’t much of a tracker, for that he was not proud. Charles’ patience and eye was unmatched, though he had taught Arthur as best he could. He could tell, however, that these prints weren’t old -- and that the animal was moving fast. 

“Go.” He muttered to his ride, digging his heels in. With a resurgence of determination, the horse sped through the valley. Over each hill he expected to see a flash of white, of brown, anything -- and over each hill he was disappointed. Then, just before the valley, a horse and rider trotted ahead of him, just out of range. 

Arthur broke into a gallop, hunting the thief down. The universe didn’t favor Arthur Morgan much that day, as the fugitive happened to spin his head around, catching sight of his pursuer. He put the paint into a break-neck speed that even Arthur, in all his fury, could appreciate. 

“Hey! Stop right there!” Arthur pounded after his horse, pistol drawn. “Stop!” He fired two shots into the air.

Above the cacophony of gunfire and hooves beating the ground, a train whistled and rumbled. The tracks became larger and larger, as did the paint, as did the train. The conductor laid on his horn, warning the coming riders. 

“Stop!” Arthur called. He eyed the train to his left, the man ahead of him, the mountains before them. Arthur aimed his pistol, cocked the gun, and fired. He watched the bullet embed itself in the side of a train car and jerked his reins with a sudden  _ WOAH. _

Arthur heaved a few breaths and watched his horse gallop away between the train cars, murderer on his back. 

  
  



	2. Stay Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur runs into a familiar face -- or muzzle, for that matter.

3 MONTHS LATER

Arthur had never cared for Strawberry. For being so small, there were too many people running amok -- selling their wares and pandering for change -- the town frazzled him. His business here with Micah all those months ago left a sour taste in his mouth as well. Nonetheless, Arthur rode his gelding under the wooden sign and crept up to the butcher’s stand.

“Fine buck you’ve got there.” The butcher gestured to the stock on his horse with a cleaver. “I’ll wager you a fair price to take it off your hands.”

“Well, sir, you’re just the gentleman I wanted to run into.” Arthur dismounted and untied the beast from his saddle before heaving it on to the butcher’s table. After a few minutes of haggling, Arthur sold the buck and a few hides that he had been meaning to scrap for a decent price. It wasn’t enough to rationalize buying a room, but he could spare some change on a drink or two.

“Tell me, where can I get a drink in this town of yours?” Arthur asked.

“Well sir, that depends on what kind of company you prefer. Just up this road is Betty’s. Fine establishment. Bit pricey if you ask me but the girls?” The butcher whistled. “Finest on this side of the Dakota. Then there’s Firestone Bar a bit further down, just over the bridge. Cheap drinks. Might get a couple ‘a dirty looks but the town’s pretty tame.”

Arthur thanked the man and lead his horse up the road and over the bridge. It was too early in the day for Betty’s and he wasn’t quite sure that he cared all too much. He had just begun hitching his horse when he heard a distinct whinny come from the side of the building. He paused for a moment, finished knotting the reins to the post, and investigated. By the side of the saloon, tied to the wrap-around porch, was a paint. His paint. Arthur’s paint. Last time he had seen the mount, it had been hightailing out of Rhodes.

The horse’s bald face and eerie blue eyes were unmistakable.

“Well God damn.” Arthur muttered to himself, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his smirk. With a promise to return, Arthur climbed the stairs and entered the saloon. Three men sat in a corner playing five-finger-fillet, another rested at the bar. Save for the owner and young woman carrying crates of glassware upstairs, the bar was practically barren. Arthur took a seat at the bar, taking inventory of the weapons in the room. It was safe to assume that each of these cattleman had a gun. There was probably a shotgun behind the bar as well. Arthur wasn’t looking for trouble, per say, but damn if he didn’t kill the man who robbed him of his steed.

“What can I get you?” The owner eyed Morgan, though not unkindly.

“A beer is fine. Something dark if you have it.”

“No problem.” The owner left, only to reappear a moment later, bottle in hand. Arthur took a swig and rested his elbows on to the bar.

“Fine bar you’ve got here.” Arthur commented. “Traveling folk come through here often?”

The owner grunted and worked at a stain on the wood with a hand towel. “Of the likes of you? Not often.”

Arthur sipped his beer and stilled his bouncing leg. He craned his neck a bit, sizing up the patrons. The paint outside could be hard to handle, not a horse for timid folk. He dismissed two of the men at the table in the corner, too young to be wrangling a stallion. That left the man at the bar. His straw hat hung low, shielding his eyes from the late-morning sun. Problem was, or perhaps it wasn’t a problem at all, the drunk was already but half-conscious. To try and take him on in such a state would be cruel. Arthur sighed and finished his drink.

“Can I help you find something sir? You’re awful… curious.” The owner snapped.

“No, no. I’m just looking feller I ran into a while back. That horse outside…” Arthur trailed off, sure to keep that glassy look in his eye, a sadness in his tone. “...reminds me of ‘em. That’s all.”

“You asking ‘bout that stallion out there? The paint?” One of the men from the game table, a round, red-cheeked boy, piped up. The drunken suspect didn’t move from his place at the bar, just continued his miserable sleep, face nestled into his arms. Arthur rose from his seat and began toward the game table.

“Matter ‘a fact I am. You know something bout it?” Arthur asked kindly.

“Oh man.” The boy started. “Don’t know nothin’ sir except for he’s a fine beast. Saw his rider taking him down the main road the other day like some vigilante. Never seen a horse move so quick through a town. Nearly trampled my ‘Ma.”

“Did you see who it was, son?” Arthur demanded, struggling to mask his eagerness.

“Uh…” The boy paused and flicked his gaze behind Arthur and one of the men at the table rose from his chair slowly, eyes pinned behind Morgan. Arthur turned around and noted three things. The empty bar. A WANTED poster tacked on the wall by the door. The shotgun pointed at him.

Glass shattered as the bar owner missed his shot and struck the window behind him. Arthur was quick to grab his pistol and fire back, striking the man in the shoulder. Chaos erupted. The remaining men fled the bar and called for help in the streets, the owner groaned as shotgun shells clinked to the ground, Arthur’s own pulse rushed in his ears -- but beneath it all, beneath the din and dischord of it all was the unmistakable sound of hooves pounding outside.

“Goddammit!” Arthur swore and burst outside. The universe worked in funny ways, Arthur thought, as he watched the paint gallop right past him, a man in a straw hat astride. Arthur swung a leg over his temporary steed. His feet weren’t even in the stirrups before he was galloping after the paint.

Lawmen called after the pair, threatening Arthur if he didn’t stop. Arthur, however, was feeling lucky. He chased the vigilante out of town and through the woods, keeping the dun stallion in sight. He pulled out his pistol and took aim. The vigilante snuck a glance behind him and veered right, into open land.

Arthur galloped after him, the sun bright in the unprotected plains. He was nearly close enough to shoot when two lawmen burst from the trees, one crashing his own horse straight into Arthur’s paint, the other close behind. Arthur took three shots. Both lawmen slumped.

Arthur trotted up to his downed paint and dismounted, snagging the straw hat off the ground. Ahead of him, the horse rose from the ground and shook its head, worse for wear. The thief slowly rose from the earth as well, his condition no better than the horse’s if his limp was any indication.

“Seems to me that you’ve lost you hat.” Arthur swaggered toward the bastard, gun still cocked. He paid Arthur no mind, however, choosing to stumble to the paint and pat his neck.

“Son, you’ve got an awful lot of nerve to --” Arthur faltered.

The thief breathed a heavy exhale and turned to Arthur. That straw hat had hid a tumble of ash hair, a shade too dark to be called blonde in addition to delicate cheekbones and a soft jaw. Arthur paused in his pursuit, unsure of his original plan to execute the bastard that took his horse. Only, he wasn’t a bastard at all.

Arthur only allowed himself a moment of hesitation before continuing forward with renewed purpose. He grabbed his rope and yanked the woman’s hands behind her back before hog-tying her quickly. She squirmed and grunted but remained silent. It unnerved Arthur.

He stashed the woman on his horse and gave the stallion a pat before injecting him with a bit of a pick-me-up. With that, he swung his leg over and rode East.

He could practically feel the law breathing down his neck.

* * *

Three days had passed and the pair had not exchanged any words.

The fire blazed steadily, the smoke of a seared rabbit drifting North with the wind. The woman sat at the fire, turning her skewer of meat over the flames. After the first night, Arthur Morgan had stopped tying her wrists and ankles. The bitch wouldn’t be able to ride or run for the remainder of the week on that faulty ankle. She hadn’t caused him too much strife, either, with her oddly meek demeanor considering the previous events. He hadn’t missed the black rings beneath her eyes, though -- hadn’t forgotten her defeated form slumped at the bar. He watched her pick at the rabbit meat tediously.

She still wore her breeches and button-down, not that she had any other clothes, but it trivialized Arthur nonetheless. He wanted to know who it was that he intended to watch swing in St. Denis. It was no surprise she could pass as a man, so long as she wore that heavy grey overcoat and her wide-brimmed hat. She was certainly tall enough with her boots on.

Arthur had asked, of course. He asked her name, what she was doing horse-thieving and man slaughtering in the gossip-ridden streets of Saint Denis. That had only gotten him a sigh, however. He could almost appreciate her silence those first few hours, her silent fire of revolution burning within her unspoken words. Then it unnerved him. Then it intrigued him. 

So badly he wanted to ask, though he knew nothing would come of it. Instead, he stamped out the fire and laid out his bedroll. The woman got the hint and laid out on the grass in Arthur’s line of sight, just as he had told her on the first night.

Sleep came quickly.

* * *

 

“Arthur! Get off me, goddamn you!”

Arthur snapped awake, groggy-eyed but ridden with adrenaline. A few feet away from him a bear swiped at the ground, bellowing his anger. Beneath it, the woman screamed and kicked. He grabbed the closest weapon, his old cattleman’s revolver, and shot at the beast without hesitation.

It roared and reared its ugly head back, leaving the woman to lunge for Arthur. Arthur shot the animal twice again, but it charged on, flattening Arthur to his back. Arthur slipped the knife from his belt and stabbed the beast in the neck, a useless defense against the nearly 600 pound mass. It readied it’s hot mouth and clamped it’s teeth into Arthur’s shoulder. He grunted and hissed in agony. Arthur continued to fight the fruitless fight, stabbing the beast in the neck again only to be swiped at a second time.

Just as he prepared for another stab, gunshots rang through the valley. The grizzly bellowed a pained cry and lumbered off Arthur. A third gunshot echoed and the bear dropped, his back riddled with holes. Arthur felt the warmth of his life pool around his back, coppery and thick. His vision swirled, making the stars above quake like a flame. For a moment, between the spots of agonizing pain, he thought of the gang -- of Jack and John and Hosea, all sleeping peacefully beneath the same sky. Those thoughts couldn't be entertained for long though. Arthur was his father's son, the offspring of Lyle Morgan, the pride of Dutch Van Der Linde. He could not die, not here between rolling hills, the great mountains and rushing rivers just a memory of the West. He could not sleep eternal, his fate decided by this unruly beast, saving the woman he intended to kill. And yet...

He faintly registered a soft pitched whistle. It was of a vaguely familiar note. He couldn’t help but wonder where he had heard it before in all his stupor. It was not unlike his own call for his stallion, though this note was lower -- resounded further. Perhaps Hosea or Micah whistled such a tune...

“Come on, come on.” A woman worried, miles and miles away from him. He registered a shadow pacing near him. That whistle sounded a second time, mellowing into nothingness. The sky began to dim, fluid began to bubble in Arthur’s throat.

“Goddammit!” The woman swore.

She stopped her pacing, dropped to his side.

“Look at me Arthur. Look at me.” The woman demanded viciously. Above, the woman’s face swirled, her cheeks smattered black and red. He registered her voice, her hands on his chest, the burn of alcohol -- on his tongue, on his skin, in his veins. He ground his teeth so hard he feared they would crack.

“Stay awake.” The woman snapped. The night came and went in pieces. Arthur drifted in and out of consciousness, registering the pull of flesh as his captive stitched his skin back together. He felt the shake in her hands, this close; they were gloved in crimson blood. The night was an endless ordeal of pain and fear from all parties involved. As the bloody sky of dawn began to break, the woman tended to a small fire, heating Arthur’s hunting knife until it glowed menacingly.

When the the blade touched his torn skin, the world went black.   



End file.
